If You Won't
by BipolarMolar
Summary: WIP.Sherlock has a bond with John- call it friendship, call it love but he denies it. The two men are skirting around the issue and Mycroft reckons he may as well court John himself. ON HIATUS.
1. Room At The Top

If You Won't

Title: If You Won't

Author: BipolarMolar

Rating: M

Pairings: John/ Mycroft, Sherlock/John

Summary: Sherlock has a bond with John- call it friendship, call it love but he denies it. The two men are skirting around the issue and Mycroft reckons he may as well court John himself.

Disclaimer: Any characters you don't recognise from the Sherlock television series, I made up. But I don't own the Sherlock franchise- the Baker Street boys belong to the BBC , Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I make no money from this.

I apologise for any errors, I don't have a beta yet so I'm going solo. If you like this story, then please review, or favourite the story or author. Reviews would make my day and help stir the creative processes. Thank you. Also, this is an M slash story- so it's going to involve male-on-male action. If that offends you then I wouldn't recommend saying this. Just saying.

Enjoy.

Sherlock was having a good day. He was close to solving this case, he could feel it. The anticipation hung in the air, tingled on rapidly-moving lips as he spoke at length. It was only an hour later that he noticed that he was speaking to himself. John must have left a while ago, not bothered to tell Sherlock. Sherlock frowned, glancing around their shared living room. It was later than he thought (dull) for the limp light of the lamp sent thick arching shadows scattered in the corners of the room. Somehow the room seemed colder when John wasn't in it. He sighed, huddling down on the sofa, settling into the foetal position, movements slow, languid.

Ever since John had moved into 221B Baker Street, he had brought change with him. Nothing unmanageable- John wasn't like that- but there were subtle differences in Sherlock's life now that he had a flatmate. A colleague. A friend. Eating, for one thing. Things like sleep and food never really mattered to the Consulting detective. It was transport, nothing of importance. That moment when you wake up, still wrapped in the hazy layers of sleep and you're disorientated, don't know where you are? Yes, well, Sherlock loathed that. It made him feel odd; he could almost feel his brain cells dying. And as for eating…forget it. That was simply another way of distracting yourself from the workings of the world. Also, how was he supposed to catch killers if he was bloated with steak and kidney pie?

But then John came and suddenly it was 'Try and eat something, Sherlock' or 'You need to sleep, Sherlock' . If anyone else had said that, Sherlock would have dismissed their concern with an imperious wave of a pale hand. But somehow, John didn't make it sound like nagging. Sherlock would sometimes accuse John of mollycoddling him ( ' You're not my _babysitter_, John. I am perfectly able to look after myself') but John was never fazed. He carried on with the resilience of the soldier he was and the kindness of the doctor he was.

He reached for his violin as he lingered on these thoughts. He began to play, an idle tune, whimsical even that he had composed a few years ago. Plucking at the strings of the Stradivarius always helped. It ordered his thoughts with, ensured that his mind was running seamlessly from one deduction to the next and the next and-

A shadow fell over him. Not bothering to open his eyes(somehow it seemed natural to veil his gaze when playing the instrument- it made him give sufficient attention to the music) he began to speak in the rapid, staccato way that was _so very_ idiosyncratic. The voice he employed when revealing the mental framework behind his dramatic deductions.

'Good, John, you're here. I'm close to solving the case, I'm certain that Carly Whitlock didn't kill her husband. She's not the killer but she was working with him- the shade of lipstick used to write the death threat is the same as the shade she was wearing when she first-'

'Sherlock,' the man interrupted and that was when Sherlock opened his eyes.

'Mycroft. ' Sherlock acknowledged irritably.

It wasn't John Watson standing over him, as he'd initially thought; it was Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's elder brother. Dressed simply but elegantly in a charcoal-grey three-piece suit, Mycroft oozed confidence and condescension from every pore. Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock regarded his brother over the polished wood of the violin.

_No briefcase with him so he's not going to inform me of a crime he wants me to solve - Mycroft always brings the documents to back it up._

_He doesn't smell of Rosewater so he's not checking up on me for Mother's sake- at the end of every visit, she hugs him and he smells of her perfume later._

_To the best of my knowledge, I haven't recently broken any laws, stepped on any toes or done anything that could warrant Mycroft coming here to reprimand me on something… which leaves-_

'I take it you're here for a social visit, Mycroft?' Sherlock watched intently for his brother's reaction. To his surprise, something, an emotion, indescribable, flitted across Mycroft's face before his look cooled, as he gained control of himself. The only thing that Sherlock thought, was that Mycroft had looked(just for a second) _nervous_. This was impossible. Everything from tell-tale teenager to influential adult, Mycroft had approached matters in, yes, a more _cautious _way than Sherlock but with the same cold confidence. They were far more intelligent than their peers. What was there to fear?


	2. Razor Keen

Chapter 2: Razor Keen

Title: If You Won't

Author: BipolarMolar

Rating: M(eventually).

Pairings: John/ Mycroft, Sherlock/John

Summary: Sherlock has a bond with John- call it friendship, call it love but he denies it. The two men are skirting around the issue and Mycroft reckons he may as well court John himself.

Disclaimer: Any characters you don't recognise from the Sherlock television series, I made up. But I don't own the Sherlock franchise- the Baker Street boys belong to the BBC , Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I make no money from this.

I apologise for any errors, I don't have a beta yet so I'm going solo. If you like this story, then please review, or favourite the story or author. Reviews would make my day and help stir the creative processes. Thank you. Also, this is an M slash story- so it's going to involve male-on-male action. If that offends you then I wouldn't recommend saying this. Just saying.

Author's notes: Ok. Wow. I was overwhelmed by the attention my humble little fic got, absolutely overwhelmed. For some reason I assumed that the active Sherlock archive would mean that my fic would somehow fall through the cracks and be unread. It's amazing- you're all wonderful! Well, now I feel obligated(in a good way- e.g writing a thank you note after receiving a present) to quickly add another chapter. Updates won't be on clockwork because I don't have a computer, have to use public computers. Hope you enjoy the second chapter. Things start slowly at first but things will speed up. Enjoy.

Ooh, also: If you want to know my Fictionpress pen name ( they are a sister site of this site, but for original fiction- e.g . essay, poetry and stories with OCs etc, just let me know in a pm.

Oh and BTW, I decided to name the chapters. The chapter title is a song by an artist I adore- Adam Ant. If I can, all chapter titles will be following that theme although this is _not _a songfic.

"Mycroft." Sherlock scraped the bow across the instrument, with a vehemence that made the strings groan. The man raised his eyes at the word, but said nothing, instead opting to lean heavily on his umbrella, impassively. Sherlock _seethed_. That deliberately disdainful expression on Mycroft's face was infuriating. Somehow it reminded Sherlock of his father.

"What do you want? Have you come to revel in my success?"

Mycroft's perplexed look made Sherlock stifle his laughter behind his hand. "I solved the case-"

"Of Carly Whitlock? Clearly she didn't kill her husband although she had motive. The poison used was virtually undetectable ."Mycroft sneered, twirling his umbrella idly in his hands.

Sherlock exhaled, before continuing his deductions. "Clever woman like that, she found a poison which only needed to come into contact with the flesh in order to kill a human being. She made a n antidote-"

"For her sister as the sibling would be the one poisoning Whitlock's husband. She needed to be protected as the plan would involve her painting some of the poison on-"

"Her lips. Carly Whitlock knew her husband had an eye for women, so her sister agreed to be a-"

"Deadly temptation." Mycroft added, inclining his head.

A pause. The Holmes brothers regarded each other, one seated, one standing. One impeccable ni a suit, the other barely dressed. The differences were large in number, but the icy slickness of their keen minds was identical.

"It's not like you, _dear_ _brother_, to stand on ceremony. Why not sit down? Take some of the, ahem, _weight _off your feet. " Sherlock began a rousing rendition of Vittorio Monti's Czardas. Mycroft gently tugged the bow from his grip before he became too distracted.

The older man automatically glanced down at himself, in response to Sherlock's statement. His slim form seemed to surprise him for a moment- still remembering himself as overweight, Sherlock acknowledged.

"Refrain from ridiculing me on things that are no longer accurate, Sherlock. " he paused, before adding somewhat unnecessarily. "I am a perfectly healthy size now."

"Yes, you're practically underfed." Sherlock raised his eyes heavenward. He heard his brother's umbrella pull against the floor, like an irritated horse pawing at the ground. He smiled.

"When you are finished with your infantile attempts to goad me, I'll tell you the real reason why I'm here-"

"Some misplaced _concern_?"

"Don't interrupt, Sherlock, mummy always disliked that. She thought it vulgar."

"Then tell me why you're here"

Expecting a rapid riposte, and finding none, Sherlock raised his head .

Mycroft shifted his weight to the other leg. Sherlock frowned, the gesture inexplicably reminding him of John, the way he would shift weight off from the 'bad' leg. He voiced his thoughts. "Where's John?"

Fro some reason, that one comment seemed to evoke more of a response from Mycroft than any of Sherlock's previous remarks. Mycroft stiffened like an angry cat, bringing himself to his considerable height. Sherlock tensed, and then made a show of looking unbothered. Mycroft couldn't intimidate him anymore. They weren't children anymore.

Mycroft's face coloured, his hand clenching around his umbrella. Sherlock longed to shoot it. "Really, Sherlock, it has barely been weeks since Moriarty's last scheme* and you don't even know where your…accomplice is. You cannot be so inconsiderate. We have a madman at large, a man who, I hasten to add, has fixated on _you_."

"He wouldn't hurt me yet, the game-"

"You may be safe- for now, but Dr. Watson is not. He remains to be an obstacle between our psychopathic friend and yourself. Sooner or later, Moriarty is going to want to, ah, _delete_ this complication. "

A glacial freeze curled around Sherlock's brain, setting a frosty panic seeping into his bones. He visualised something not unlike dry ice creeping through his mind and shivered violently. "It won't come to that. John doesn't need your concern and, for that matter, neither do I."

"You already have my concern, regardless. And whether or not john wants it, he is going to get it." Mycroft turned on his heel and left without another word. Sherlock sat back in his chair and wondered if he could somehow get a sample of Carly Whitlock's poison and coat the handle of that annoying umbrella with it.

**Author's notes: Golly. Hope you liked it. Don't expect updates as regularly as this one, what with exams and my house living in the technological dark ages, but the reviews and traffic I received has motivated me so much to really work on this fic on the weekend. As always, R and R .**

**This is a thank you to all the lovely people who reviewed the first chapter. If your name isn't on there, apologies, I expect you reviewed after I wrote this.**

**10- 11****th****DoctorLove: Thanks, I'm glad you're looking forward to the update. I'll change the rating if you think so- I just didn't want to put it as a K when nothing happened- I'd feel like I was doing false advertising.**

**a fan again: Thanks for the review. A conversational tone of writing, eh? Ok.**

**Paola: Thank you ,hope you enjoyed this chapter.**

**Azaleas: Thanks so much. Mycroft's cool.**

**Insertwittynicknamehere: Love your pen name! Aww, Mycroft being cute! I don't think he'd be pleased to hear that lol. I like your theories and the way you eliminated the first option-that's a deduction, surely? Brilliant, Holmes! There are some brilliant Johncroft fics on this site-I think I've got some listed on my Favourite Stories on my Profile.**


	3. Dark Brown Voice,Suit Pristine

**Title: If You Won't**

**Author:BipolarMolar**

**This chapter is dedicated to SmilingSloth for an inspirational review. Thank you.**

**Author's Notes: I'm on Archiveofourown (AO3), under the penname BipolarMolar(same as here, obviously.) If any of you are interested in Hollyoaks fics, namely ones that pair Brendan Brady and Simon Walker, then feel free to check my profile, I've uploaded fics pairing them. Also added a Sherlock songfic on there, etc.**

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As he crossed the road, both hands pinned at his sides by an impressive amount of shopping, John considered (with some understandable apprehension) the state the state the flat would be in when he got back. Sherlock had been threatening to shoot the wall again, and although _he_ may consider it worthwhile, that didn't mean John, or for that matter, Mrs. Hudson did. Knowing that any moment he could be faced with noxious chemicals or the screech of a Stradivarius, John approached the flat slowly. He was struggling for his key when the door suddenly opened wide and someone stepped out, umbrella first.

"Mycroft," John said. He was aiming for polite but instead he sounded surprised. Mycroft Holmes, the personification of the British government looked down at him from his frankly, _impressive_ height. He was as neat and precise as ever, brown hair slicked back and suit immaculate. It wasn't the first time that John had wondered just how Mycroft could manage to have such a clearly demanding job (running the country wasn't easy, he'd heard) and still look like an extra for _Mad Men_. There he was, "Suited and booted" as John's mother would say, while John himself felt and most probably _looked_ like hell. He was uncomfortably aware of his ratty jumper and scuffed shoes.

"John," Mycroft replied, with a small inclination of his head. John stifled a smile. It seemed comical somehow, Mycroft's perfect posture and suit, against the dark door of 221B, it gave him the feel of being in a Dickensian novel. He rather tugging his forelock with "Yessir" but refrained from doing so and settled for a rather forced smile.

Mycroft cocked his head, his eyes flicking to the bags weighing John down. Instead of asking if John required his assistance, he smoothly said "Allow me," and plucked a couple of bags from John's hands. John watched incredulously as Mycroft strode back into the flat, the loops of the bags hanging on his wrists.

John trailed behind uselessly, Mycroft slowing to a steady saunter ahead of him. They boarded the stairs, bags rustling. Mycroft's umbrella hung on his arm, bobbing jauntily with each step. Following the other man, John couldn't deny that the man's assistance, while not initially asked for, was definitely appreciated. He looked up at Mycroft as he climbed the stairs; the man walked almost silently, just the slight creak of the old wood beneath his feet breaking the silence. Even laden down with groceries, an umbrella dangling on his arm and climbing up the narrow stairs, with his suit perfectly tailored and his hips swinging subtly as he approached the door, he was surprisingly graceful.

Mycroft stopped when he approached the door, gently putting the bags down and turning to John, still smiling.

"Are you- I could make tea?" John offered, placing one hand on the door frame. He told himself that he was just being polite, offering a courtesy but he really didn't Mycroft had helped him with the shopping so- he was almost disappointed when Mycroft shook his head apologetically, murmuring something about work. There was an awkward moment as the two men went to bid goodbye. John wasn't sure whether to shake hands or not. He watched uncertainly as Mycroft straightened up, gracefully sidestepping a stray bag to approach him. John extended his hand but was surprised when Mycroft took it, long fingers wrapped delicately around his wrist but didn't shake.

"Take care of yourself, John," Mycroft said softly and although the tone was pleasant, there was a darker undertone, an invisible steeliness amidst the genteel timbre of his voice. "Because no one else will." With Mycroft's hand in his, the Victorian gloom of the walls surrounding them and the slight threat of Mycroft's ambiguous statement, John's head whirled. No one else will? Did Mycroft mean him, specifically? Because that was true enough- Sherlock never expressed a caring side, he couldn't even be trusted to buy the milk. Or did Mycroft mean it generally? His eyes found Mycroft's once again, and there was something in them, something he couldn't even describe, but it was something that made him lean in, inexplicably, staring up into Mycroft's eyes. And then the moment died, their hands broke away and suddenly they were just Sherlock's brother and Sherlock's best friend again.

"Goodbye, John. I'll see you soon." Was Mycroft's departing remark, as he turned to walk down the stairs. John sighed and said nothing.

Author's Notes: A short chapter but there will be longer, chapters coming. Updates will hopefully be more frequent, but I don't have a computer and probably never will, so the library is my new favourite haunt. R and R. I love you guys.


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